


Fortune Cookies

by ScienceofObsession



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlets, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Molly is a secret BAMF, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock is too smart for his own good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:43:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScienceofObsession/pseuds/ScienceofObsession
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s no shortage of takeaway in 221B. Think of the inspiration provided by all those mass-produced fortune cookie declarations. You’ll find some results of them here, an ongoing project.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Firecracker Chicken

**Your tongue is your ambassador**

**Lucky numbers: 32, 29, 50, 44, 18, 10**

 

Sherlock’s tongue is not known for being gentle. Sharp and acerbic, it ferrets reactions, barks orders, preens shamelessly through deductions. Praise doesn’t fit well on it, sliding off unnoticed among bites of sarcasm.

 

For this, Sherlock is thankful his tongue is fluent in a language other than words. Clumsy, restrictive, _bland_ , even his extensive vocabulary is inadequate for what he needs to communicate when John is in his veins.

 

Oh, Sherlock speaks with his tongue. Forms exclamations of love, private worships, bashful confessions. But it is not through speech that he achieves this. A patois of stuttered breaths, a dialect splintered out beyond base words into soft caresses, bitten supplications, the perfect measurement of need and want. Devotion becomes part of his lexicon, something spelled out in fingertips and sweat-sheened skin and the dance of sunlight on bared throats. Prayers and benedictions written in rumpled sheets.

 

Up against the wall, with the bite of Sherlock’s hip rocking against him, John hears the words that remain unspoken. 


	2. House Special Fried Rice

**It would be best to maintain a low profile for now**

**2, 37, 11, 7, 38, 44**

 

Hamburg, Sao Paulo, Kiev, New Delhi. Filthy brothels, dank cellars, echoing warehouses. It all runs together like the hair dye swirling down the sink drain, like the constant flow of information and changeling identities and the finality of _I’ll give you a red smile_. He barely eats, sleeps, rests. Nothing gets in the way of the machinations of his mission, that single purpose that wraps him up until he sees nothing but blood and violence and scars and _the hunt_. Blinders, for the sake of his quest. It’s a cocoon, repeatedly forcing him out with wet wings, taking him in again for rebirth.

 

In a rank, sweat-soaked tenement deep in Bangkok, squalling children in the hall and the thump-thump-thump of club music drowning him, he feels his sense of self slipping away. He knows why he’s here  ( _I will burn the heart out of you_ ) and what he’s going back to ( _if you’ll be needing two bedrooms_ ). But what he can’t recall just now is who he was when he started this. Which name is his, which face will John welcome home and which would he pass by unnoticed on the street? Will he even be welcome, with his soul disfigured by the things he’s done?

 

He counts on John to bring him home. Knows the pull of Baker Street, the smell of the couch leather, the scrape of a chair leg on wood, slow taps of John typing on his laptop, the drape of a sunbleached curtain. He holds these memories closer than he even holds his own mind, buries them deep and safe where no torment could ever extract them. He knows these are his talismans, what he needs to have in order to even find his way back.

 

So he waits, patient for this final resolution. He visits home in his waking dreams, slipping in quietly for that reminder of where he belongs.

 

Soon.


	3. Eight Treasure Tofu

**Your ability to trust fuels your ability to love**

**Lucky numbers: 4, 37, 50, 15, 47, 16**

 

 

He had said: “You are very loyal, very quickly.”

 

And, oh, the premonition of it.

 

It’s funny, the way we choose to trust. The way chemicals and body heat and a plate of pasta can override the caution written in words and actions. The way we lean into it unconsciously, and find ourselves suddenly wrapped up in a new piece of comfort ( _look,_ _it’s for shock_ ). Stronger for the skin-burrowing surreptitiousness of it all.

 

Look at the beauty of it -- the way we use that trust the first time, reading breaths, hoping the translation of pulse and pupil are correct. Asking for truths with the press of lips, a precipice calling for flight. The whisper of skin, clink of teeth, rush of blood -- a harmony of trust given and taken as hearts are laid bare.

 

And how that intimacy extends into our lives – that trust fueling each move, imbuing the dangerous with comfort and surety. After the frightful fall of love, that confidence can withstand more than what’s promised in a few gunshots or torn knuckles. It keeps us armored in faith, safe from the dark creep of doubt and ministrations of the criminal underbelly. When two become one, it’s a simple and elegant partnership. Mutual predictions, reactions, responses as if premeditated and planned. Chance becomes a pinpoint target for a practiced shot, it’s an easy kill when you know what beats in the heart next to you.

 

Catch me, and I will catch you. Sing to me, and I will not laugh. Feed me, and I will eat. Heal me, and I will lay still. Drink me, and I will fill you with trust.

 

 


	4. Emerald Delight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Aderyn, who enjoyed her Emerald Delight and pushes me in new directions.

**Your mentality is alert, practical and analytical**

**Lucky numbers: 41 36 11 10 48 29**

**  
**

He is elemental. Based in logic, steeped in the enveloping stain of natural systems. He pulls patterns from dust, rolls facts between oiled fingers until they yield so many unquestionable truths. The riot of his eyes (verdant-azure- _lawless)_ trained in unabashed scrutiny. Humanity’s simplistic blueprints tattoo his wrists and the inside of his thighs; only London knows how to read them.

Soggy, blackened, winded, Sherlock finds himself on the wrong end of a dangerously-wielded syringe; he feels the warmth sliding into his veins as rough hands lower him into a puddle. Tries to pluck it out through the thin skin on his knuckles, giggling at the absurdity. Water drips into his ears, John’s heavy footsteps are thunderous. He closes his eyes and dances in the streets of an Emerald City, straw falling from his seams.

 

+

 

An army of foam teacups forms rank next to the hospital bed. The night nurse offers a fond quirk of lips to the slumped form dozing in the corner.

 

+

 

Sherlock’s unconsciousness smacks of frivolity. An archetype of vulnerability and repressed memories. _Boring._ Somewhere he can feel it pulling at his edges, resisting the loss of control. Sherlock never did do well with submission. He clicks his heels.

When he opens his eyes, John is there, softened, bared as he holds back the curtain. _Welcome back._

With barely a blink, Sherlock sits up, alert and all industry.

“Tell Lestrade it was the doorman. Where is my phone?”

John drops the warm wrist with a sigh, rolls his eyes, and wonders why he even bothers to worry.

__

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't got a brain... only straw.  
> How can you talk if you haven't got a brain?  
> I don't know... But some people without brains do an awful lot of talking... don't they?  
> Yes, I guess you're right.  
> \- The Wizard of Oz, 1939


	5. Hot and sour glass noodles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down in her morgue Molly has power - strength gathered around her shoulders, ill-fitting and cherished.

For [Aderyn](../../../users/aderyn/pseuds/aderyn) – it’s no pumpkin candle, but it will have to do for now. :)

 

 

 

**Action takes precedence over words. Can you do it?**

**Lucky numbers: 3, 37, 28, 42, 36, 10**

 

 

Molly never had words for Sherlock. A stuttering mouse, tripping on her pink tongue; between them was never a space to harbor pride. She knew this, accepted it for its inevitability, as if the heat of him blanketed her senses, made her sluggish with fevered dreams. She wrapped herself in it when she could, pushing the resulting embarrassment away for the thrill of a flushed cheek. His name tattooed the raw insides of her shortcomings.

 

She learned to put faith in her skill, her knowledge. She may not have strong words, may not project a voice of authority _(“Molly dear, be strong now, it’s not the time for tears.”)_ or instill confidence with her tongue – but she knows what she’s good at. She lets steady fingers spell out her thoughts, self-sure movements of scalpel and scale and saw. With each pop of bone, fold of skin, stitch of thread, she exerts her power. This abattoir is hers, the cold flesh takes fond instruction. Here, she knows who she is.

 

She hates the farce of dying, the excuses and shame of it. She doesn’t see defeat in final breaths and blooming red stains, she sees closure and rebirth, comfort in finality. Rest. It’s not so bad, she thinks, for the dead. It’s the living who become hollow,

 

When Sherlock’s eyes spell need, trust, she knows this time is hers. Death is where she’s comfortable, competent. Her voice evens, her surety spiked, and it supports her weeping spine. Here, she is useful to a friend. Here, she is the guide, the vision, the might. She rises, ablaze with purpose, and watches him shield his eyes.

 

God calls, and his voice resonates through the morgue. Sherlock’s heart swells, then stops.

 

She walks home, pours a glass of courage, and hugs Toby. She has done good work today, and she will find pride in that before the time comes to face what she has wrought.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We cannot, indeed, imagine our own death; whenever we try to do so we find that we survive ourselves as spectators.” - Sigmund Freud


End file.
